


Small Dynamites

by AngryGayFriend



Series: Sexyism [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Race Changes, Anxiety Attacks, Established Relationship, M/M, Prison, Protests, Riots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 11:09:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngryGayFriend/pseuds/AngryGayFriend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Enjolras purposefully does something stupid and doesn't find it necessary to give Grantaire a heads up. For the first time in a damn long time, Grantaire is the sane one in the relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Dynamites

**Author's Note:**

> basically, same interpretation of the characters/universe as my previous shit but I got impatient on the slow build and wanted to write quick one shots that may or may not later be integrated into the actual story. I don't describe the characters much here but in my interpretation but the intention is there's a lot of race-bending/sexuality-bending and all. I wanted to write something quick-ish though that was action-based, so I didn't include all of the intense backstories.  
> I did research this time! Also, my beta made me make sense. (You mean paragraphs don't work like stanzas and you need real transitions? Who knew.)  
> Title from "Drown Him" by Derrick Brown (my fave spoken word poet basically)

Grantaire should’ve known something was up when Enjolras was eating like a normal human being. He had been talking about the protest for weeks in advance, skipping out on study dates and lunch rendezvous almost consistently in favor of heading off to a last minute meeting or running to get permits or picking up supplies for signs and banners. Grantaire was pretty sure the fucking Kinko’s employees saw more of Enjolras in the two weeks prior than Grantaire did, because he’d always be carrying a freshly printed stack of pamphlets and flyers whenever they did manage to meet up. But that was what he expected, so he couldn’t hold it against him. He knew what he was getting into when he started dating Enjolras, and he didn’t expect him to stop trying to save the world, hell he didn’t expect him to even slow down one bit, but--Grantaire doesn’t like to dwell on possibilities and expectations and hypotheticals because they only leave him disappointed. But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t hope just a little bit that out of the 14 times they had planned to meet up, Enjolras would make it to more than 4 of them. Grantiare would’ve been happy with just 5 times, even! But he tries to take it in stride because really, what else did he expect from Enjolras.

He sits in a cramped café that is not the Musain, but he likes to drop in once or twice a week because they have good sandwiches. It’s close to the arts/humanities side of campus so it’s filled with smartly dressed hipsters with bookshelves of crappy used books, mostly popular fiction no one would want to read anyway. It gives it a homey feel, though and he’s settled down in one of the overstuffed armchairs in the furthest corner from the door, definitely NOT because it has a perfect view of said door so he knows exactly when certain people walk in. The set-up of the whole place is way too small to fit all of Les Amis in comfortably, but he does acknowledge it’s a good place for a study date.

“You should come to the meeting tonight,” Enjolras says as he slaps down four heavy textbooks and another fucking stack of leaflets on the coffee table in front of the pair of comfy chairs. The past 2 times they had tried to meet up here before Grantaire had his weekly studio class that ran late into the night, something inevitably came up. Enjolras says it like he is oblivious to this fact, completely unapologetic and distinctly authoritative.

“Yes, well, I am actually the busy one for once and I go late on Thursdays. You know that,” Grantaire says the last sentence more to his latte than to Enjolras.

“Grantaire,” and he’s already using the annoyed tone today, “it’s important. This is a big rally with a lot of people, the final meeting is important and mandatory.”

“Mandatory for what?”

“For coming to the actual protest. It’s like,” Enjolras trailed off trying to decide on the proper words.

“It’s like a thing?” he supplied.

“Yes. _A thing_.”

Enjolras had a few “things” that he maintained ironclad, anal-retentive rules about. For example, the only guacamole fit for consumption is that which is homemade, one does not simply “set foot” in a Starbucks, and no one, absolutely no one, received a specific ringtone in Enjolras’ phone because it wasn’t “egalitarian.”

“What makes this one a thing compared to any other meeting before any other protest?” Grantaire asked distastefully as he swirled his cooling latte.

“Because we expect more than 100 people, the meeting is mandatory for safety reasons. If anyone gets hurt, especially one of Les Amis, I’m directly responsible.”

“You can’t stop people from being stupid when you get that many people together, Enjolras,”

“Yes, but I can stop my friends at least from getting hurt or arrested.”

They counter each other easily in conversation, like it’s second nature. Which in many ways it is, for better or for worse.

Enjolras finally sighs. “Grantaire, I really would like you to be there for the protest tomorrow because it’s an important one. It’s the important one. But the meeting is a thing.”

“Firstly,” He holds a finger up for emphasis, “thus far, who has said I even want to go? I’m not exactly a peach at a normal meeting, let alone a normal protest, let alone an important protest. And secondly,” another finger, “I am indeed busy and my studio class is indeed mandatory. Besides, the semester’s almost over and I really need to haul ass on this project. So it’s like, doubly mandatory.”

Thanks to too much borderline-creepy admiration and too many pencil and charcoal sketches, Grantaire has studied Enjolras quite thoroughly and is almost fluent in his ticks. To the casual acquaintance, it would have been unperceivable and inconsequential. But when his eyes flit down to the table for a moment and he brushes a few strays hairs back from his face, Grantaire knows he’s crest-fallen.

“That’s not to say I don’t want to support you or anything,” He quickly recovers. “But I can’t make it to the thing tonight, so I’ll just be there after the protest. For moral support. Okay?”

Enjolras’ fingers tap against the stack of pamphlets as he nods dispassionately, “Fine. Sounds good.”

“Fine. Good.”

“Fine.”

Really, what was Grantaire expecting? Not only does Enjolras eat a normal-sized sandwich in the two hours they stuck around the café, he even mentions getting dinner with Ferre and Courf that evening before the meeting.

 

Later, Grantaire spends his studio time with that indecipherable “shit’s about to go down,” feeling itching at the back of his neck and he just knows by this time tomorrow he is going to seriously regret his life decisions. His painting shows it, and he just resolves to repaint it all over on the weekend.

As he leaves the studio, he fires off a few text messages and negotiates his way into Enjolras’ bed that night despite the fact his Apollo has to be up by 6AM.

When the alarm sounds, Grantaire startles awake but Enjolras shuts it up by the second ring. He whispers “Sorry,” against Grantaire’s temple as he slips out of his arms. Grantaire feebly tries to pull him back into the warmth of downy blankets and 500-count sheets, but his Greek God is already making his barefoot way to the bathroom, and Grantaire doesn’t have it in him to haul himself into the shower right now. He dozes lightly as Enjolras puts himself together, and watches in a groggy haze as he pulls on the skinny jeans that do marvelous things to his ass and layers up on t-shirts and a hoodie.

“It’s gonna be like, 85 or something today. What the hell are you doing, Apollo?” He croaks out, eyes not fully open like a drugged up puppy.

Enjolras only hums in response before offering a peck on the lips, “Be good,” and slipping out the apartment.

Grantaire doesn’t wake up again until the sun is high in the sky and the protest is well underway.

He rummages through Enj’s drawers, finding where he casually stuffed a few of his own t-shirts and jeans amongst his Apollo’s sundresses and pressed shirts. Breakfast is coffee from the godly machine of miracles (Enjolras splurges on few things: coffee, bed, shower, and books) and vegan-ass toast and jam, before finally checking his phone. Instead of the usual excited and enthusiastic blow up he expects whenever his friends hold some kind of rally without him, there’s a single group text to all Les Amis from Combeferre:  
 _  
Everyone meet up at my place._

And Grantaire feels exceptionally sober for the first time in months.

***

When he arrives, Combeferre isn’t even at his own apartment. But it is the designated meeting place when “shit happens,” so they all have a spare key such that Grantaire easily lets himself in. Eponine is lying on the couch with scraped knees and legs dangling over the armrest while Bahorel sits on the coffee table, scrolling through his phone as best he can, icepacks haphazardly ducktaped to his knuckles, a bag of peas held up to what’ll be a bitch of a shiner by tomorrow. They appear to be the only ones in the apartment.

“Where the fuck is everyone?” Grantaire asks in a quiet, high voice, like he isn’t sure if he’s supposed to be angry or terrified so he settles for bordering-on-hysterical.

Their attention snaps up at him. “Where the fuck were you?” “I’m texting people about that now,” they say simultaneously.

“I had studio, like I always fucking do on Thursdays, so Enjolras wouldn’t let me come because meetings and things,” he snaps as he pulls out his phone, “Bahorel, who have you heard back from?”

“Ferre and Joly are probably going to be a while. Last glimpse I got of them, they were going all ‘ninja pre-med’ on people. Bossuet’s with Feuilly, and they’ll be here soon.”

Eponine sits up a bit, “Jehan texted a second ago saying he’s on his way. Courf’s with Musichetta and Marius and they’re held up but Chetta says they should end up here soon too.”

“And Enjolras?”

She snorts, “This is why you should come to the meetings. Fuck your studio.”

Bahorel strokes his beard as if searching for the right way to phrase something when Jehan bursts in, ripped up sweater hanging off his shoulder and a bloody head wound that’s staining its remains.

Priorities, and all.

 

Grantaire is kneeling in front of the toilet entirely innocently for once, patching up the poet who sits on its closed lid, insisting that he’s fine, damnit.

“Really, head wounds just bleed a lot, R. I am 100% fine. 200%, even.” Jehan’s voice is quitter than usual, , trading his ripped up sweater for one of Combeferre’s t-shirts they found around his room (“He won’t miss it and if he does too bad,” Bahorel had said) He looks impossibly tired as Grantaire cleans up the wound with antiseptic, but Jehan barely flinches when the alcohol hits the open scrapes. He sits with hunched shoulders and his fingers drum impatiently against the porcelain because he’s worried, he’s tired, and Grantaire’s fussing isn’t helping either of those. When the first punches had been thrown, he’d been more surprised than afraid, but he had never been one to run away from a fight when the time called. He is not arbitrarily violent, but intrepid, and Jehan has no trouble stepping up to the plate and taking a swing in the form of a beastly left hook—a fact all of Les Amis are dutifully aware of. So despite the tremor in his voice, his fingers are itching to throw another punch from the adrenaline.

“Just let me take care of you, goddamnit,” Grantaire protested as he wrapped more bandages on the gauze, circling Jehan’s head with a medical halo to stem the bleeding after he had properly cleaned it up. “Did you fall and hit your head? Should I be worried about a concussion?”

“I fell but not on my head. The bleeding came when someone dragged me and my head was still against the asphalt.” He doesn’t want to upset Grantaire unnecessarily—really, he’s fine—but no, it had not been pleasant.

“Was it a police officer?”

“Just one of the homophobes protesting against us,” he said as he adjusted Grantaire’s wrappings a bit, making them more bearable.

“Wait wait back up,” Grantaire says as he put away the gauze for now, “All this at a gay marriage thing?”

“It wasn’t gay marriage,” Bahorel chimes from the bathroom doorway, “It was workplace and housing discrimination; gay marriage is way too mainstream for the Fearless Leader,” he adds the last part with a laugh. “Also, Feuilly and Bossuet made it back. Courf, Marius, and Chetta have an ETA of like a minute. Pretty sure Joly and Ferre are still indisposed doing doctor duty.”

“And what the fuck is up with Enjolras?” Grantaire asked impatiently.

“Why weren’t you at the meeting?” Jehan asked as if it wasn’t a subject change at all.

“Fucking— I was busy. I have a thing on Thursday. Now, my friends are beaten up and everyone seems to have forgotten my boyfriend has whereabouts that are currently unknown—“

Courfeyrac’s voice rings in at that moment, “Fret not! Your valiant cavalry has arrived.”

They all end up strewn around the living room as Grantaire tries not to flip a table as he helps care for the wounded. He’s still wound up and worried and is easily the least qualified person to be doing , the apparently only sane one who is easily the least qualified but happens to be good with medical tape.

 

Grantaire and Bahorel both help reset Musichetta’s dislocated shoulder—they’re not exactly proud they’re pros at this—when Joly and Combeferre finally, finally, make it back.

Enjorlas isn’t with them.

Grantaire knows he should give them space as they have only just walked in, covered in too much blood, most of which is thankfully not their own. Their bodies, though, looked fine, save for some scraped up elbows and knees, so Grantaire finally had to ask:  
“Combeferre. Where the ever loving fuck is Enjolras?”

Combeferre stares at him a moment then glances at his phone, “Probably at booking now.”

And if Grantaire wasn’t near hysterics before he is about to laugh and cry and flip a table all at once.

 

 

  
***

Ferre is trying to listen, really he is, but Grantaire’s talking way too fast for someone who has only had two cups of coffee--despite playing mobile ER for 18 different people--to process and respond to right now. He runs a hand through his dark curls as he tries to suppress the oncoming headache from sheer will alone and listen. Grantaire is apparently ranting about stupid egotistical social justice maniacs who think they’re so damn godly and Combeferre figures this should probably stop soon.  
“Grantaire, this was all planned.”

Everyone else looks unimpressed, like it was so painfully obvious, while Grantaire looks just as stunned as before. “Wait, you seriously— you seriously let him get arrested on purpouse?”

Thank God Courfeyrac fields this question as he adjusts the frozen peas on his hand, “He’s been planning this for a while, and you know how the Fearless Leader gets when he’s set on something. We knew this protest was going to be a big one with so many other groups showing interest and stuff, so we figured this would be the one, and all.”

“So what, we just wait around and let him sit in jail?”

Eponine rolls her eyes and Combeferre really appreciates other people speaking coherently right now. His brain is still bumped up on way too much adrenaline for him to do anything but slump in a chair finally. Joly, the other half of Team Mobile ER, is already half-asleep on Bossuet’s shoulder in a chair after he had done a final once over on everyone injured.

“He’s going to call Combeferre once he can get to a phone. We’re all probably going to wait around for the call and then head out,” she sighs, still lounging on the couch.

Grantaire nods slowly, trying very hard to regain a sense of calm. The second Combeferre’s phone goes off, he’s immediately back on his haunches though.

Ferre checks it and half-laughs, half-sighs, “It’s my mom, calm down R. She probably saw the protes ton the news,” he sighs and stands, walking off for some privacy with a slew of Hindi flying into his phone.

Grantaire is doing deep breathing exercises and Jehan rubs gentle circles on his back, “Really, it’ll be fine, R. It’s Enjolras, you know he’s prepared for this and all.”

He lets out a long breath and nods, “He’ll call soon. It won’t be long at all.”

  
***

“Soon” ends up being four boxes of pizza and a small movie marathon later in Combeferre’s living room with everyone curled up in blankets and pillows. Grantaire is marginally awake, while just about everyone else is either asleep or going to be within the next 5 minutes. Jehan has dozed off already under a pile of blankets and Courf is trying to casually, yet carefully, position himself so Jehan’s head will rest on his shoulder. They’re piled in the couch along with Combeferre and Eponine on the other end. Musichetta’s shoulder was all but encased in ice earlier but it’s now a lukewarm bag of water. Still, she’s wrapped up with Joly’s head on her stomach as she herself rests in Bossuet’s lap. Bahorel was one of the first to fall asleep in the big arm chair, his eye now sufficiently puffy and black with some aggravated red still. Feuilly sits on the floor nearby. Marius had left earlier to reassure Cosette in person that yes, he would be just fine. Of course out of all Les Amis, Marius, the terrified puppy, would leave the riot with no discernible cuts or bruises. Against all their faces reflects the blue light from the TV in the dark and it feels strikingly like every other movie night/sleepover they’d managed before. Except noticeably without any of Enjolras’ commentary about their cissexism and casual racism. Grantaire notices this with a swooping feeling in the pit of his stomach that keeps him far too alert for his liking. He just wants to sleep this off like a bad hangover and feels his eyes getting progressively heavier from his pillow on the floor when a phone rings, loud and piercing, and Ferre is up in an instant, “Hello?”

  
Grantaire tilts his head up so he can overhear.

  
“Yes, I’ll call Lamarque and come pick you up. Don’t cause too much trouble in the interim.”

  
Grantaire scrambles up and mouths 'I’m going with you,' as he runs out the door to Ferre’s car before he can even protest.

  
Grantaire’s mind is racing everywhere, head pressed against the window as he bites his lip, imaging Enjolras a broken and bloodied mess and damnit why wasn’t he there? Why did he let Enjolras stop him? Why didn’t he rain check on the studio time? It wasn’t even that productive.

  
Meanwhile, Combeferre is speaking to Senator Lamarque sounding significantly calmer than he really is. She assures him she can get the charges dropped before it even goes to trial—they had planned for this after all—and to just keep calm and stick to the plan. Easier said than done, but Ferre never lets on just how worried he is. Grantaire hears the whole conversation through the phone, but it does little to comfort him right now.

  
When they get to the station, it’s late as a motherfucker, and they’re met by an austere policeman at the desk with a bright nametag reading “JAVERT.” The lobby has linoleum tiles and cheapo fluorescent lights and “JAVERT” sits behind the kind of ratchet plexiglass with a slot one would expect to find with a bank teller. His uniform says he’s from the 1st District (How fancy) yet Grantaire is well aware they are currently at the 6th. Must be the layoffs, spreading officers thinner. Ironically, Enjolras had led a rally a month prior about the civil servant layoffs in the city. But he can tell from the look on Javert’s face that now is certainly not the time to point out ironies.

  
“We’re here to post bail for our friend, Enjolras.”

  
Javert looks like he’s about to arrest them for simply daring to look his way, but he nonetheless follows the procedure to the T as Ferre hands over the money order they’d prepared. Of course Enjolras would have planned the exact amount bail would be set at. His boyfriend’s preparedness would’ve been endearing in any other situation. Instead, Grantaire just worries about how all this could have been planned and executed without him even thinking Grantaire might like to have some fucking idea about it, mandatory meeting be damned.

 

  
They wait in the cold, stark white lobby for what seems like entirely way too damn long and Grantaire understands why his boyfriend left wearing so many layers in May if he planned to end up here. And that’s probably why he didn’t fight about food, since he certainly wasn’t being fed in this terrifying place. Grantaire thinks they’re making them wait so long just for shits and giggles because Enjolras isn’t led out, flanked by two officers, until 5:45AM when bits of sunrise are just peaking over the skyline.

  
He lets out a tiny gasp, noticing his Apollo’s bright hair and tall frame and stops himself from tackling him to the ground in hugs and kisses right there. Then he sees the handcuffs rubbing dark bruises into his wrists, the blood crusted all down his nose, the dark red matted against his long golden hair, and the bruises and scrapes dotting the rest of his personage. Grantaire isn’t sure what he wants to do more—comfort him, or throttle the cops gripping Enjolras' arms.

  
Ferre, thankfully, has his shit together and stands impassively as the attending officers unlock Enjorlas’ handcuffs and make some snide comments about the “pretty boy.” Yep, he definitely wants to throttle those police officers, but he does think better of it.

  
“The court will be in touch regarding trial date likely within the week. If you fail to appear, a warrant will be issued for your arrest. Have I made myself clear?” Javert finally says, eyeing Enjolras.

  
Enjorlas nods. “Yes,” he says. Grantaire almost can’t recognize his voice, from the tone. Emotionless.

  
“You are free to go for now.”

  
The whole process is so mechanical, he’s not even sure if it’s okay to touch Enjolras during the long walk out of the station and to the car.

  
Enjorlas slides in the back, and immediately slams the door shut. Grantaire takes a breath, then goes to ride shotgun. Once they’re all in, Apollo seems to deflate--he looks more exhausted than he did after the finals week when he took 6 classes in one semester, and Grantaire wants nothing more than to run his fingers through his hair and whisper sweet nothings they’ll both forget in the morning. Except he’s supposed to be angry. He is angry. Enjolras did something stupid without telling him, as usual, and he has every right to be upset about this.

  
“You called Lamarque?” Enjolras asks, half-asleep already.

  
“Of course,” Ferre answers as he starts up the car and pulls out, “I take it you don’t have a concussion or something I should be very worried about right now?”

  
Grantaire sees him Enjolras shake his head weakly in the rearview mirror, , “They checked for the concussion and the bleeding just stopped eventually on its own.”

  
“That doesn’t mean you’re magically alright, Enj!” Grantaire is getting near-hysterics again, “Just because the bleeding stopped now…! You probably lost a lot of blood, you look like a mess, did they fucking beat you or something? I mean, what the hell happened there?”  
“Well you would know if you bothered to show up.”

  
Oh. Oh no. Oh hell no.

  
“Are you shitting me!” And Grantaire explodes this time, so loudly Combeferre almost swerves out of reflex. “You do not get to play that fucking card with me! God forbid I actually go to fucking class, and then you have the audacity to be a prick right now? Seriously? Do you have any idea how worried and freaked out I was when everyone showed up a bloody mess, and you were missing, and I just get some random text to be at Ferre’s apartment? Why didn’t you give me some fucking heads up you had been planning to get arrested! You and your stupid rules! You should’ve let me come and help you, you insufferable asshole!”

  
Enjolras snaps awake with newfound energy, gearing up for this argument, “The rules are in place for the big protests so people don’t get hurt! So we all stay safe! How can I expect you to do any of those when you show up to meetings drunk, you show up to rallies drunk, you show up at my door drunk all the time! If you weren’t going to get a rundown of everything at the actual meeting, how could I trust you to follow any of that at the actual protest?”

  
“So you don’t trust me?” and Grantaire turns in his seat to glare back at the man, “That’s what this about? You don’t trust me?” He lets out a bark of a laugh, horrified and surprised, “Well, I don’t exactly blame you, I know I’m a worthless fuck up. But, riddle me this Enjolras. If the shitty rules are in place to make sure everyone stays safe, how exactly did they help today? How exactly did you keep everyone safe?”

  
Poor Combeferre. The following silence is so heavy it almost fogs up the windshield. They glare at each other, Grantaire awkwardly twisted around in his seat and Enjolras too tired to really lift his body but the fire was still in his words. He stares at Grantaire with a million different emotions at once: surprise, shock, outrage, offense, and most poignantly, guilt. But Grantaire is hurt too. For someone with near non-existent self-worth like him, being trusted by The Fearless Leader had been a source of pride; Enjolras’ trust would have taken up his whole mantelpiece if it could. But now he feels like he’s even worse off than square one, because if he didn’t have Enjolras’ trust, then what was he, other than a good fuck and an annoying argument?

  
. They sit in silence the rest of the way to Enjolras’ apartment, and when he parks the car outside the building, he’s not quite sure what to do.

  
Thankfully, Enjolras opens the door and slides out, muttering something along the lines of “Thanks, Ferre,” before he heads inside.

  
He and Grantaire sit in silence in the car for a good few seconds before the resident cynic sighs dramatically, “I can hear you thinking it, so fine. Fine! I’ll talk to him,” and slides out of the car as well, heading up after.

  
Combeferre sits silently for another beat before turning on some Justin Timberlake and driving back home, still shell-shocked after encountering a fight of such magnitude in his poor little sedan.

 

  
Grantaire climbs the steps two at a time—give him credit, Enjolras lives on the 6th floor—and knocks loudly. “Enjolras please! Let me in. Or open the door," he hits the door harder, “Or something. We need to talk.”

  
No response. So he tries again, “We have to discuss this because yes, I’m sorry, but damnit you fucked up too!”

  
Not exactly what he wanted to say, but it was true. Still no reply. So he spends the next half hour banging various theme songs out on the door until finally, FINALLY, Enj opens it with a murderous look of annoyance.

  
“Spongebob? Really?” He asks in a deadpan.

  
“I’m sorry. But you should be sorry too.” Okay, maybe not the best opener. But Enjolras doesn’t close the door right there.

  
“I mean,” and fuck when did it get so hard to talk to him, “I know you worked really hard planning it and trying to make it all as legal as possible with your permits and all, despite the fact you still planned to get arrested—but anyways. You worked really hard on it, and you said yesterday, or two days ago now, but you said before that it was all your responsibility, so just—You put a lot on yourself. And you work hard. And you do good work. But it’s not your fault everyone got hurt today. I’m sure you planned to get arrested over something simple like a megaphone, not start a riot and all. It’s not your fault. Is what I’m saying. …Yeah.” Words are hard.

  
Enjolras stares at him for a while, murderous glint dulled, before Grantaire notices his bottom lip faltering, a shaky breath, and before he knows it Enjolras is letting the tears flow and whoa when did Enjolras cry in the history of forever.  
Right now, his boyfriend, his beautiful boyfriend who wears sundresses and short-shorts and girlish flats because he pushes 6 feet naturally, his obnoxiously smart boyfriend who consistently pulls all-nighters, volunteers at a homeless shelter, a labor union, and is starting his own non-profit, HIS boyfriend—as if Grantaire would ever imagine the day where he could say that phrase seriously—who has beautiful hair marred with blood where his skull was bashed in by billy clubs, sporting cuts and bruises that’ll surely be all shades of the rainbow by this afternoon, who put all that work into the biggest rally he has probably ever led only for it to devolve into a riot that endangered almost all the people he held dear, that boyfriend of his is a sobbing mess, tugging at Grantaire’s shirt, all but hyperventilating. And fuck if Grantaire’s heart doesn’t nearly break.

  
He ushers him out of the doorway at least, trying to hold him in a comforting way while they both stand upright despite Enjolras having about 4 inches on him. He manages to get them to the couch so he can meet Enjolras’ eyes, placing gentle hands on his cheeks, “Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay,” he uses a quiet tone, all the frustration from before gone, “It’s alright. Can you breathe with me for a second? Take a breath in and hold it with me, come on,” he encourages, leading him through the exercises Grantaire knows all too well so he can actually get some oxygen to his brain. He’s trying to hold himself together too because fuck if this isn’t scary, seeing his metaphorical rock like this. After about 20 minutes, Enjolras has quieted to simple tears now, breath hitching every so often as Grantaire leans back on the couch and pulls him into his chest, running his hand through his hair and whispering those sweet nothings.

  
They fall asleep that way and don’t wake up until it is soundly afternoon.

  
***

Enjolras is the first to stir, as often is the case. He notices he’s still in his gross clothes from before and he now regrets putting on all those layers. He also notices he has yet to wash his hair and feels acutely disgusting. Then he finally notices the slow chest moving under him, drawing even breaths. He looks up at Grantaire, studying his face and can’t help but smile seeing the man looking peaceful like this. He carefully brushes the curls from his face, thumb tracing the cheekbone and the pattern of dark freckles on Grantaire’s tan skin. He vaguely wonders if he’s shattered all of Grantaire’s illusions about him, torn down the pedestal he put him up on in his... anxiety attack? Pseudo-anxiety attack? He’s only vaguely embarrassed, more thankful than anything though because without Grantaire, he probably would’ve passed out from the hyperventilation.

  
And on that note, he notices the grumble in his stomach and extracts himself as carefully as can be before stripping down for a shower and to start up afternoon breakfast. His sleep schedule is officially fucked.

  
Grantaire doesn’t wake up for another 30 minutes to the smell of fake eggs and avocado on toast. Enjolras has changed into pajama shorts and a baggy sweater, his hair washed and tied back in a low bun. Of course he is making Grantaire of all people breakfast right now despite the fact he himself was the one beaten up and pushed to his limits. Grantaire wants nothing more than to pull him to bed and swaddle them both in blankets, but a real conversation has to happen at some point.

  
“Hey,” He says blearily as he enters the kitchen, fully aware he has not changed his clothes in way too long.

  
“Hey yourself,” he says as he absentmindedly adds fake cheese. Enjolras handles himself like a five-star chef until one actually tastes the food he makes, only to find it inedible. So Grantaire casually scoots him to the side to finish the omelets off so they can actually enjoy them.

  
“So…”

  
“So.”

  
“So, how are you feeling?” He asks, as he adds fake cheese. “Physically, and not-so-physically?”

  
“Exhausted. But I slept a lot, so it’s fine.”

  
“Do you want any bandaids for your cuts? I know you suck at actually using that first aid kit in your bathroom, but it might help you know.”

  
“I’ll be fine.”

  
Grantaire nods and finishes up the food in silence. On a scale of one to Michael Cera, they’re about a Sheldon Cooper on the awkward right now.

  
“I do trust you,” Enjolras mutters to the avocado he’s cutting after a few minutes. “I trust you enough that I-- I broke down and all in front of you.”

  
“That is a pretty big deal,” he does have to admit it. “Do you want to talk about what made you.. break down and all?” His tone is careful and practiced like his sister had often used (body language-wise, at least) with him.

  
“I just,” thank God Enjolras puts down the knife; emotions and knives are not good combinations, “feel trapped on this pedestal sometimes. And everything felt like it was going wrong last night, and we fought, and you’re right—ugh, you’re so damn right—I had planned on using a megaphone, something simple and safe. And then everything went to hell.”

  
“It’s not your fault.”

  
“It feels like my fault.”

  
“Because you’re holding yourself up on the pedestal right now.” He puts the omelets aside to look at him seriously, “We’re your friends. We’re not going to leave because of this. For me personally, I would really like to have some fucking notice on this if you plan on doing anything stupid.”

  
“It wasn’t stupid, it was important,” he protests because goddamnit, all he does is protest.

  
“Then do your important shit after you’ve at least given me a head’s up,” Wait he didn’t mean for this to turn into an argument. So he finishes with the point already, “Just, have faith that we will support you and love you even if you’re not Apollo all the time, Enjolras.”

  
Enjolras is quiet for a while. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  
“How else did you think I’d react when I found out you were in jail, of all places?” His voice is getting higher in pitch but really, he's trying to stay calm and rational here.

  
Enjolras frowns, frustrated with himself now because he knows he doesn’t have the right answer, “I don’t know..! But I know how much you worry unnecessarily about every protest and every rally and I didn’t want to worry you more. I was trying to be considerate.”  
“Being considerate is telling me about this shit!” Grantaire can’t help his voice from rising. Really, he’s trying here.

  
He sighs, half-apologetic and half-annoyed, “I’m sorry then. I’ll keep that in mind in the future.”

  
“Really? Will you really? Or are you saying that just so this conversation will end?”

  
And that gets him an eye roll this time, “Contrary to popular belief, I do not exist simply to fight with you. If telling you things beforehand even if they’ll do nothing but worry you is important, then I’ll do it, because I care about you and you want me to.”

  
Grantaire nods warily, “And will you tell me when you’re starting to feel overwhelmed and all too? Because I know anxiety attacks, Enjolras, and I know the kind of schedule you keep. It’s really fucking rare they pop up out of the blue with absolutely no warning at all.”  
He nods silently and Grantaire sighs, completely exasperated,

  
“I’m not going to judge you for being anxious about all the expectations you’re held to. That’s like, a normal fucking response for a human being to have. Get it through your thick head that I love you. Your friends love you. It’s okay either way, I just want to help.”

  
He nods, feeling both numbed and relieved. “Okay.”

  
“So… better? A little, at least?”

  
He nods a bit more then says after a beat, “You’re good at feelings.”

  
Grantaire laughs, “I’m not ‘good’ at them, I’m just used to having a lot of them. Tortured artist and all that,” he says with a dismissive yet sassy wave of the hand, “But for now, I am still in gross clothes from yesterday. You still haven’t eaten. I’m sure some random part of everything that’s happened in the last 24 hours will come up in an argument later, but for now let us remedy the two former parts I mentioned. I am going to bask in the glory of your shower,” he kisses Enjolras’ cheek, “And you are going to eat all that toast while I do it.”  
“Actually, I think I’ll join you in the shower,” he says with an almost-sly grin. The comment about future arguments made him uneasy, but for now he writes it off as just Grantaire being Grantaire and hopes for the best.

  
“Goodness me, aren’t you a little eager for someone who just sustained a head injury?”

  
“As if the bruises don’t turn you on even a little.”

  
“Only the ones I give you during sex,” he says in a more intimate voice.

  
And well, that overshadows any hope of being productive that evening.

**Author's Note:**

> Every time I think I've integrated/deleted all my betas comments I recheck and low and behold there's something I missed. I knew uploading this at 3AM wasn't the best idea but gawwwddd. Sorry as I keep editing bits and pieces.


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